For You to Live and Die
by Feather Ice
Summary: They had powers to rival a god's. They had a burned wasteland for their home. They had the morality of children. And they had each other. Unfortunately, the world only needed one messiah; but how could Arthur and Merlin be separated? It was unthinkable. Unthinkable... until Merlin told a lie.
1. Flies

Warnings: Graphic violence, mentions of spirituality (largely bastardized), homosexuality, and various post-apocalyptic settings.

Pairings: Merlin x Arthur

**xxxx**

**Chapter One: Flies**

_It starts like this: Arthur holds out his hand. "Hello, I'm Arthur."_

_ Arthur does not introduce himself to people. He is introduced to them and adored at once (and envied). He does not care what they think as long as he is above them, as long as he is more than them. He does not shake hands._

_ The boy sitting on the concrete doesn't look up at Arthur when he sighs raspingly. It almost sounds like a real word, something like "merlin." So until he can be bothered to answer properly, that will be his name. The boy doesn't take Arthur's hand. He huddles deeper in his jacket and it is cold, so very cold, snowing in early spring, so why does Merlin's jacket have so many holes? Arthur wants to make him warm. He has stolen away from the guards for this very purpose, and now all Merlin needs to do is take his hand. _

_ But he won't._

_ Arthur reaches for him instead and the boy jumps away, staring at Arthur with the bluest eyes in the world. Maybe it's because the rest of him is fading and dying. His skin is the color of snow, stretched tight and dull over hollow cheeks and brittle bones. He will blow away in the slightest breath of wind, but his eyes are the color of the whole sky, eternal and beautiful._

_ He is afraid and his eyes say Don't Touch Don't Touch, and Arthur is a contrary boy—a bit of a bully, really—he grabs Merlin's fragile skin and tries to take a fistful of it. Merlin hisses like a stray cat, wild and resentful, and he claws at Arthur with weak hands. He bites and his teeth are sharp. _

_ Arthur retreats with a yowl of his own—pain is not something he's accustomed to—and his hands fly free of the blue-eyed boy's skin. He leaves it unbroken._

_ The impression Merlin leaves him is of beautiful eyes and being stronger than he looks._

**XxX**

Merlin is chained down, and he struggles with the mad, fervent abandon of a wild creature. He foams at the mouth, shrieking, spitting, straining for the chance of freedom. His captors are clever. He cannot move. The chair is a thing of beauty; it can hold even Merlin fast.

They turn on the electricity, and Merlin's screams shake the earth. His blood vessels burst, his saliva runs pink with blood, and as the minutes pass, there is a smell.

He is being cooked alive, a human hot pocket, and still he screams.

**XxX**

_ Arthur is accustomed to it—to seeing Merlin. The guards are there day and night and have impressed on Arthur why he must never leave them. Arthur understands and he does not try to disappear. But whenever they take him out, Merlin is always there. Arthur can feel his presence with the prickle of his skin, and occasionally will catch a glimpse through the gaps in the bodyguards surrounding him. Merlin ducks back into an alleyway, he catches Merlin's eyes watching from a dimly lit window, he picks him out on the other side of the street, vanishing with a passing car. _

_ On the days where he is not quick enough or Merlin is not bold enough, the prickling becomes paranoia. Arthur wonders—_Is he hurt? Has he gone? Will I ever see him again?_ Arthur makes himself sick, sometimes, until he is shaking on the floor and retching with bile, terrified of some premonition of blue eyes glazed over and covered with flies. He does not know which of them he is afraid for. It could be him just as easily, which makes the scenes all the more horrific._

_ He tells himself this parallel is why these nightmares disturb him. After all, Arthur shares nothing with Merlin but the feel of cold, chapped skin and snarled black curls. It's only his imagination that finds Merlin everywhere in the outside world, pretends that Merlin waits to see Arthur. Merlin is not really there. There is no reason for him to be._

_ The world is a scary place, all full of monsters. Logic is a sword that Arthur needs._

_ Arthur's nightmares show Merlin dead and doctors are brought in with strange words and stranger tonics and pills and prescriptions. Arthur is young, children are prone to sudden illness. Arthur is emotionally unstable; he needs medication. Something is wrong with his mind; Arthur may die._

_ Arthur, personally, knows he won't die. He's waiting too hard to die. _

_ Once he is well enough to get out of bed and go for a walk outside, this time Merlin will be sure to linger just long enough for Arthur's eyes to catch him. _

_ Merlin grows quickly in these shutter-snapped images. He grows tall and pale and thin, like a tree blanched white and then dark again. His eyes stay blue as the sky and impossible to miss._

_ Arthur's insecurities fade when he is thirteen and Merlin's voice is in his head, whispering his name softly again and again. _

Arthur.

Arthur.

Arthur, Arthur, ArthurArthurArthur**Arthur**_. _

_He cannot shut Merlin out and he cannot draw Merlin into conversation, though he does try. He knows that Merlin hears him. He can feel it—feel Merlin's mind running alongside his, alien and intriguing, like a river with the wrong color. Merlin pays attention to everything he says, but never replies. He chants Arthur's name and in time Arthur forgets what it's like to have his head to himself. His name becomes his lullaby, his theme song, his study music. It is the sound of breathing. It is the sound of the world turning._

_ As long as Merlin is whispering Arthur's name, Arthur knows he is alive. They both are._

**XxX**

They tie Merlin to the stake—his eyes roll, panicking like a horse led to its slaughter. He does not scream—they have gagged him to keep him silent. He does not try to make a noise, but his fear is a tangible vibration. Thick, foul fear; the smell of shame and indignity. It can be found on any street in this world, in the pockets of cities where monstrosities breed. What he fears they do not know. It is not the pain—he has had so much of that that surely he cannot fear pain.

They assume that therefore what he fears is death. They are eager to grant him unto his terrors.

They light the fire and the flames lick his body greedily. They consume his white flesh as the onlookers chant his name like it's a spectator sport, "Merlin, Merlin" and alongside it they pray "kill the witch." The smoke covers any other smell, thick and black and somehow weary. The wind kicks up ash and sprays it, and the fire splits the warlock's skin over and over. It blisters and blackens, sloughing off in bloody heaps and there is always something more under it.

The ropes are magical and do not burn away. The fire burns for a fortnight, until the rain puts it out.

**XxX**

_ When Arthur is fifteen, things go wrong. The guards are panicking—they hustle Arthur higher and higher, up flights of stairs over and over again. Their numbers thin. There is shouting, gunshots, the sudden smell of blood before Arthur is steered up another flight of stairs. His home was his palace, they told him, all his tutors and servants and slaves. He could do as he wished there, could have anything he wanted. If only he would behave._

_ Arthur behaves now, but the blood does not stop and they lock him on the roof. The last of the bodyguards are gone. There is screaming and it is very close now. Arthur shivers in the wind. It is too cold to be outside without a jacket, so he puts his hands upon his skin and wills himself to warm. Steam curls from his body, and Arthur approaches the edge of the roof to look down at the mob surrounding his palace. They are shouting and dirty and armed. They talk about blasphemy and witchcraft and other unenlightened things. They are from the Religion, the old archetype of morality of the times of before. Arthur has been taught about it many times._

_ "You must not go out unguarded because you are special. And they will kill special people because they blame them for what has become of this world…"_

_ They see him and begin to shoot. Arthur ducks back onto the roof, heart hammering. He hears them start to climb. He hears some of them fall and crunch against their fellow man and the ground. He hears them telling him to jump, to die, to have God strike him down, to confess, to atone, to beg for mercy._

_ He hears Merlin. _

Arthur Arthur Arthur Arthur.

_ He turns his eyes to another rooftop, and there is the boy, black curls whipping in the wind, face as white as fear, eyes that remind Arthur of what the sky is meant to be. It is gray today, fat with rain that will not fall; but Merlin's eyes are blue like what comes after the rain. Merlin is hope._

_ "Merlin," Arthur says, shaping the world with his mind and mouth at once. _

_ Merlin crooks a finger at him and Arthur jumps because yes, he will jump for this boy. He will die, have God strike him down, confess, atone, beg for mercy._

_ And he lives, he is shriven, he is saved. Merlin strides through the air like nothing can harm him and Arthur is in his arms before gravity can claim him. The mob is howling down below them, so far down below, writhing in the filth and dust. Arthur does not even know what he is being forgiven for, but he trusts Merlin. Arthur has been raised to trust. He wraps arms around Merlin's neck and lets Merlin take them where he wants._

_ When they at last collapse in the mouth of a cave, kept warm from the wind by Arthur's hands and kept safe by Merlin's invisible wings, Merlin curls up in the corner without giving Arthur food, water, or a bed. None of these things are in the cave. There is only Merlin and stone._

_ Arthur curls up against Merlin and is shoved away. Wounded, he returns, and again he is battered with ankles and elbows. They crash into each other like inevitabilities, again and again. Merlin scratches and bites and growls and Arthur is shouting at him,_

_ "Why would you—why won't you—"_

_ And his screaming turns into tears and shaking and Arthur grabs ahold and won't let go. His head is full of blood and screaming and why does he have to die? What has he ever done? Why has this happened?_

_ Arthur does not say please. Arthur does not ask. Arthur holds out his hand and expects it to be filled, but Merlin gives him nothing. He keeps a foot of distance between them and watches Arthur's tears with eyes full of withheld hope._

_ Arthur throws himself at Merlin again and they roll on the stones, tangled, voices raised in incoherent angerfearsorrow until they are too tired to scream anymore. Too tired to fight. Arthur's stubbornness has him clutching Merlin tight and after that there is no other way to sleep._

**XxX**

A/N: Wow. I wrote this a long time ago... and it's better than I remember (I think?). I'm... not really sure how to explain this. Erm. Anyway, it's already completed, so I cannot justifiably withhold the updates from you for long. If you like this, lemme know. The ending of Merlin was kind of heartbreaking and I want to keep our wonderful fandom alive as best I can.


	2. Human Words

**Warnings**: Fairly graphic deaths. Witchcraft. Suffering and angst. Eventual slash.

0o0o0

**Chapter Two: Human Words**

They drown him, or they try to. They hold him underwater for hours after the bubbles are gone, and when they pull him out again he is pale and bloated and still. Within the hour, he will begin to spit water out, suck in air, weakly at first and then with need. His body moves. Twitches and stands, and they hold him down once again, letting him thrash and breathe in the water until the bubbles are gone.

They try taping his mouth and nose shut afterwards, so that he will not be able to restore the air to his lungs. He seems to sweat the water out and breathe through his skin.

Merlin's eyes roll in his head, blue as the water turned against him. They well with tears, most likely trying to purge his lungs of liquid.

0o0o0

_ Merlin knows how to survive. He knows how to keep out of sight—footsteps like a breath of wind, thin body darting into shadows and corners like a fallen leaf. He knows what to eat—divides such things between the pair of them. At first Arthur finds it hard to eat—the earth only seems to render unto them the bitterest, crustiest, most repulsive morsels. Where is the microwave, the oven, the __**plates**__? Humans cannot eat this._

_He knocks the food out of Merlin's hands and shouts—"bread! Chicken strips! Canned soup!"_

_Merlin scrambles to collect his findings and gobbles them down himself, along with the dirt they fall into. His eyes are sharp and unblinking. He doesn't understand that Arthur can't eat this food; Arthur doesn't understand that he doesn't have a choice. On the third day of not eating, Arthur can't get up—he's too dizzy. Merlin pushes grass and roots against his lips. When Arthur tries to roll away, Merlin yanks his mouth open in a steely grip and stuffs it full of plant matter. Arthur struggles, chokes, coughing—Merlin won't let him breathe or spit—he has no choice but to swallow. He barely gasps in a breath before Merlin shovels more in and holds him down as Arthur bucks in his grip._

_ By that evening, Arthur is able to stand again, and the sensation of having his belly full is so good he willingly takes what Merlin gives him next. He expects it to make him sick, but it doesn't._

_ When Arthur begins to eat, Merlin's eyes begin to blink again. _

_ Arthur learns by watching—and by Merlin's hands flying out quick to slap or shove when Arthur reaches for the wrong thing. Arthur hates the abuse—__**no one**__ strikes him—but Merlin is fast enough to dart away and disappear before Arthur's temper. Arthur screams abuse at the trees and stalks back to the cave because it is his now and he won't share it. Merlin can just go find his own and if he tries to come back, Arthur will beat him bloody, kill him where he stands._

_ Inevitably, when the nightmares come, when Arthur smells death and hears screaming everywhere, sees everyone he knows collapsing at the hands of a mob chanting, "Witch, witch, witch," Merlin peels out of the dark and will lay a hand on Arthur's skin. His mind never leaves, not even when Arthur is ranting his threats and promises of pain into it, but only Merlin's physical touch can control these fears. Arthur rolls into him fast, winding his arms tight around Merlin and bearing him down, curling tightly into as much of that contact as he can. Merlin snarls and hits, but he does not force Arthur away. They compromise and lie side by side until Merlin's breathing puts Arthur to sleep._

_ And eventually—as Arthur grows less impulsive, as he watches more carefully, as he swallows his pride enough to follow Merlin unquestioningly, because he wants to live—Merlin stops communicating with his fists and fingernails. A grunt will get Arthur's attention; a light touch (of Merlin's own volition!) is enough to make Arthur drop everything and see what's the matter. The more they build their trust, the more Merlin focuses on whether or not Arthur understands, instead of the danger that Arthur will grow too fascinated and try to touch him._

_Merlin shows Arthur where the good water is—and where the water that makes you vomit out your blood is. He shows him how that stream has fish in it—good—but that one is deathly silent. This river smells like old earth, that lake smells sickly sweet. Arthur grows used to sipping from between fingers instead of cups, or simply bowing his head to drink like a beast. Once he raises his head on a hot day and finds himself staring across the water at a coyote, eyes bright and unblinking. Arthur cannot pinpoint whether the excitement thrumming in his chest is shame or pride._

_Merlin knows how to hide from the cold too, how to move with the seasons, migrate with the birds. But now he has Arthur. Arthur, who can make warmth out of nothing and banish heat like throwing a stick. _

_The problem is getting Merlin to accept his touch, because Arthur has to touch him to do it. Some days, Merlin drips with sweat, panting like an old dog, or shivers until his teeth knock together like shoes on a sidewalk. But if Arthur so much as shifts an inch nearer, Merlin will be on his feet, teeth bared, a threat in his eyes. He never speaks. After a while, Arthur realizes this is because Merlin doesn't know anything but his own name. If that's even what it is. _

_ Arthur introduces himself again sometimes, just to listen. "Hello, my name is Arthur."_

_ Merlin's voice croaks soft and each time sweeter than Arthur expects. "Merlin."_

_ Arthur wants to teach Merlin to talk, but he doesn't know how. He tries. He points and names things, he looks Merlin dead in the eye and speaks slowly, trying to align the touch of their minds to the words crossing his lips. Merlin stays mute as stone. _

_ "Are you stupid?" Arthur asks. For someone so stupid, Merlin seems to know a lot about surviving. Maybe he's like an animal and that is all he will ever know._

_The first time Merlin says his name aloud, things begin to shift. Merlin is pointing at Arthur, watching with narrow eyes. "Arthur," he says. His body is tense and ready to bolt. He is expecting something._

_Arthur smiles, broad and full, for the first time since his palace was destroyed. Merlin's voice is a comfort in his head, but aloud it is music. It has been months since anyone has called his name. _

_Merlin eyes Arthur's teeth suspiciously, and gradually, Arthur watches him relax. "Arthur," Merlin repeats, careful, and Arthur can't stop. Merlin gazes at his smile with a solemn-shy regard._

_He begins to bring Arthur things, unprompted and without explanation. Styrofoam peanuts. Twigs. Plastic bottles. Flowers. Arthur doesn't know what he is meant to do with them and he tends to throw them away without much thought. That is, until Merlin brings him a book._

_Arthur loves everything about it. It's not a storybook—it's a history of carpentry, of all things. Arthur doesn't care. He feels his heart ache with joy just at the feel of paper beneath his fingers and his face splits into a grin as soon as a sentence leaves him aware of something new. He wants to thank Merlin desperately, but he doesn't know how. Words are useless. Touch is rejected. All he can do is look Merlin in the eyes and smile. _

_Merlin starts to bring him books constantly. After a certain point, Arthur realizes what he's doing—he's trying to get Arthur to smile. Merlin _wants_ Arthur to smile._

_The thought makes Arthur's insides so unbearably warm he could melt. He smiles as often as he can, all the time, and watches with awe as Merlin starts to drift nearer to him. Brush against him for fleeting moments that do not end in violence. And then, finally, Merlin smiles back._

_Merlin's smile is better than books, better than donuts, better than an entire palace. One smile from Merlin and you forget that he is thin and sickly and strange. Arthur's brains fall right out of his head, and all they leave behind are the color of blue eyes and the way Merlin's smiles warm things up so much faster than magic._

_ Yes, Merlin trusts no one, but he will trust Arthur. Arthur teaches him to. He __**has**__ to. Arthur wants to hear Merlin speak, he wants to have touch be simple again, he wants them to be something that he's not sure how to express. It's family or friendship—something like that. _

_Arthur walks away bleeding and bruised more often than not. But he slowly wins the right to touch Merlin. He wins the right—and the trust—to follow without being treated like a nuisance. He wins other things too, but they're difficult to explain. Half of it isn't with words at all, but with contact between their minds, Merlin always pleading just a little _Arthur Arthur Arthur.

_And Merlin begins to speak. He's far from stupid. He learns so fast that Arthur feels like all this time must have been a trick; Merlin already knew how to speak and was just being cruel. But that's wrong, because he feels Merlin's mind as the boy celebrates the power of words, feels how happy he is._

_How happy he is that he can finally communicate with Arthur._

_ Things aren't done shifting. As they grow together, Arthur is no longer content to be the prey. _

_Arthur is a hunter. Arthur is strong, aggressive, and has always been a little bloodthirsty. The longer Arthur is with Merlin, the more his powers grow—fire listens to him. Wind bows at his command. Metal bends with a blink of his eye. He turns the tide. Those that hunt them die. Merlin and Arthur raid their enemies' villages, they steal their food, they sleep in their beds. Arthur is tired of being afraid._

_ But Merlin is not like him. He remains defined by his fears—his many fears. The Religion, its people, the world around him; Merlin cringes away from all of it. Merlin even treats his powers as though he might run out of them, he rations them like sugar. It's not so different from limiting them like they're a poison. Merlin is as afraid of what he is as he is no less than the people that would crucify him for it._

_ Arthur doesn't want Merlin to be afraid anymore, so he swears, "I'll kill them all; I'll wipe them off of the face of the earth. I will give you peace and sanctuary. I will give you blue skies to walk under and whole cities to wander in." _

_ He tells Merlin poetry and maybe a little bit of lies; sometimes Merlin smiles and sometimes he doesn't, but he is always watching. Always listening. And the mind that slides so near and perfect to Arthur's is never afraid. Wary, feral, and strange, but by some miracle, Merlin does not fear Arthur. _

_ "Why aren't you afraid of me?" Arthur asks._

_ Merlin hesitates. "I don't know." His eyes dart to Arthur's. "I was at first."_

_ "And now?"  
_

_Merlin considers this. He shakes his head. "I just… I don't want you to go."_

_ "Then I," Arthur promises, "Will never leave you."_

_ Arthur wants to rid Merlin of every fear that has ever haunted him, because when he catches a glimpse of the creature underneath, the one that whistles to the rain and lights up at Arthur's smile, Merlin is so startlingly beautiful that Arthur can't remember what ugliness is._

_ Why would he ever leave?_

0o0o0

The hangings become a daily occurrence. Merlin is not the only one, but he is the only one seen more than once. He refuses to walk onto the platform himself and must be dragged, kicking and screaming. They break his legs sometimes, to make it easier. Out of respect for tradition, they do not gag him. Sometimes they ask him for his last words, but they flinch if he breaks his silence.

Merlin doesn't try to speak to them. He only howls. He does not know human words.

The rope flops heavily against his emaciated chest—they have not fed him for a long time, but he will not starve. He lives on the air itself, or on some spiritual sustenance pulled out of nothing—they tighten the rope to embrace his neck. Merlin's legs flail in midair, fighting off invisible goblins, trying to walk through the sky and fly away. The bracelets on his hands burn with bright, beautiful lights, prisms within prisms, and swallow his magic whole. He dies with the same gruesome expressions as anyone else, but he cannot stay dead.

They leave him up all day and his neck snaps again and again, darning back together like a sock between ends. They can watch if they wish; watch Merlin dying in cycles, always rejected by death. What must go on in his mind as he suffers? He does not beg for mercy. He does not speak.

Sometimes he whistles.

What must the witch think as he hangs?

0o0o0

**A/N**: And... that's chapter two. Yeah. Told you it was written out. This will be updated less sporadically from now on. Anyway, let me know what you think. Hopefully things are making (reasonable) sense so far.


End file.
